Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #7

The milky froth, tinkling like tiny anklets—jhan-jhanan-jhanan—keeps tickling the feet.
May the glass bangles go on humming, may every wrist go on singing new songs.
May every youth keep smiling forever.
Beyond the fields, far from the village, may that limpid, crystal spring keep bubbling up.
May the playful water-bearers, that lovely throng, go on walking the paths with their pitchers.
May beauty keep being cast into the mold of the scene.
In the crackling heat of summer, may the trees sway and keep pouring out shade.
Nursed by cool, cool winds, may the tipsy gusts keep offering wine.
May they keep entering the eyes as sleep.
May the moonlight of the fourteenth night forever be strewn upon the fields.
In the drowsy thoroughfares, may the tint of every spreading radiance keep shining forth.
May the Ganga of tender dreams keep swelling up.
May the day of Eid keep coming as if daily; may the drums keep receiving their beat just so.
Among the capricious girls at their play, may new styles of making-up and breaking-up keep forming each day.
Let some agree, and some keep pouting.
Let the youths returning from the city keep arriving in waves into the village,
Each bringing new gifts of gold and silver for his bride-to-be.
May the palaces of life keep glittering.
The milky froth, tinkling like tiny anklets—jhan-jhanan-jhanan—keeps tickling the feet.
May the glass bangles go on humming, may every wrist go on singing new songs.
May every youth keep smiling forever.

Such is what man wants—but it does not happen. Such is what man wants—but it cannot be. Life is between death and death. The small lamp of life flickers amidst storms. Here neither permanence can be, nor bliss can be; it is impossible. The mind longs, the mind hoards great dreams—but all dreams break. Dreams are made only to break. Keep singing the songs of dear dreams, keep entangling the mind in songs, keep explaining the mind with songs, spin webs upon webs of consolation—but death comes and breaks everything.

There are only two kinds of people upon the earth. One, those who go on denying death and keep entangling themselves in dreams. The other, those who look at death full-eyed—that it comes, it must be coming, it has already come—and in that very blow of death, they awake from dreams. The one who wakes from dreams is the only one who can experience Truth. The one who remains asleep in dreams lives like the blind.

Dancing are blind humans
Fetters shackled on their feet.

Your dancing will not break those chains. Chains break by the eye. And when the chains break, then there is another kind of dance altogether. When the chains break, then Paramatma dances within you—you do not. And the chain is only one—the closure of your eye is the chain. Open your eyes.

Today’s sutras can become measures of great value in the direction of opening the eyes. Take each word into the heart.

O mind, make Contentment your beloved.

These are simple words. Rajjab is a simple man. Not a pundit’s man, not a master of words—he is a master of the soul. And remember, masters of the soul speak in direct, clean words. They have no relish for words; they only use words for what has to be said. Rajjab is no poet, though he has sung poetry—and sweet it is. But that is secondary. A poet only arranges words. He may have little to give, yet he erects a sorcery of words. He is lord of words, a skillful artist of words; he fills them with colors, and the words become charming. But the poet’s life remains barren; flowers bloom only in his poems.

Rajjab is no poet. Rajjab is a man with eyes. Poetry is secondary—it has flowed from his intoxication, it has arisen spontaneously. He has not crafted it. Hence the words will be straight and simple. And often it happens that just because the words are simple and straight we miss. We feel: We have already understood—what is there here to be explained!

O mind, make Contentment your beloved.

We ourselves keep repeating this: the contented are always happy. We all know this, don’t we? But do we know? We have only heard; we have also grabbed it, we parrot it—but do we know? It is not the wealth of our experience, it is not our treasure. If this were our treasure, the splendor of our life would be different, the dignity different. There would be no chains—there would be dance. There would be no darkness in the eyes—light would be dancing. This whole sky would be your courtyard. Existence would pour out its secrets upon you. But that is not happening. We are groping like the blind, in dark caves. In what we call life we live in blind relationships; in what we call love we grope. The search goes on; the hand never touches anything, yet the groping continues. The hand will never truly touch anything. But even if the hand finds nothing, what to do? One must go on groping; it is a compulsion. In groping at least one hope remains—if not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after. At least we remain entangled, at least the busyness remains.

Your entire enterprise of life is only an arrangement for your so-called busyness. If man remains busy he remains forgetful. If man becomes empty, memories begin to arise: What am I doing? Why am I here? For what? Where is my destination? Where was I to be? In what muck have I fallen? I came to become a lotus and I remain pressed in the mud. Shaking questions begin to arise. There is only one way to escape them—entangle yourself, put yourself to work anywhere. Work keeps a false sense alive—that something is happening. Nothing is happening. Nothing has ever happened here, nor will anything ever happen here. Yet the illusion of happening remains. We are doing, running, racing, fighting—what else can we do? We stake everything. If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after. There is only delay, not darkness. So we explain ourselves thus. And we have memorized all the sweet words. Having memorized them, we have killed them—we have murdered them.

Understand—
O mind, make Contentment your beloved.

Rajjab says: The friend in this world is only one, the lover in this world is only one. If you must love, love only that one—its name is Contentment. If you befriend Contentment, what will happen? We have joined our relations with discontent. We have married discontent. We have put our hand in the hand of discontent. Then we writhe, then we weep, then we beg—but we do not leave the friendship. The more we beg, the more we strengthen the friendship. See this straight truth—he who befriends discontent, how can he be happy? Even such simple arithmetic is not visible! What is the craft of discontent? Whatever is, discontent says, What is in it! Discontent says: What you do not have—that has essence. What you have is void. Therefore run after what is not—you will have fun then, bliss then.

But this formula is suicidal—the moment you get it, it becomes worthless.

Understand the logic of discontent, its mechanism. Its mechanism is this: whatever is attained becomes futile. Meaning seems to exist only so long as it is not attained. The woman you desired was very beautiful so long as she was not attained. Attain her, and all beauty vanishes. The house you wanted—you slept sleepless nights! How many dreams you adorned!—then it is attained, and the matter becomes empty. Whatever comes into your hand becomes worthless the moment it comes. Will you call this discontent your friend? This is your enemy. It makes you run—only makes you run—and whenever something is attained, the very attainment renders it futile. Then it makes you run again. It has been driving you for births upon births. Through the eighty-four lakhs you ran because of friendship with discontent. You have ten thousand rupees—what have I really? Nothing! Let it be a lakh, then it will be something! The moment a lakh arrives, your discontent—your friend, your partner—says: What’s in a lakh? Look around—people have made ten lakhs. You fool, you sit with your lakh? What value remains now? The days of lakhs are gone; now are the days of crores. Become a crorepati—then there will be something.

Do you think that with a crore in your hand there will be something? There will be nothing. That same discontent will be there as your companion. Before the crore is attained, much time will pass; there will be running, life will be squandered—and when you arrive, that same discontent will say: Is a crore anything? There are billionaires in the world! Look ahead! Do not stop—you must be a billionaire! And thus it will keep you running. It will create taste for what is not, and create distaste for what is. What is becomes meaningless just because it is. What is not becomes meaningful just because it is not. Only then can the race continue. Otherwise the race would die.

He who befriends Contentment—his race is gone. His tumult comes to an end. Contentment’s formula is the reverse. Contentment says: What is, that alone is meaningful. What is not—what is there in it! What is already with you—blessed is your lot. What is not with you—there is nothing in it. He who befriends contentment—if he is not happy, who will be? And he who befriends discontent—if he is not miserable, who will be? The natural outcome of discontent is sorrow. If you understand me rightly, the mind that lives in discontent lives in hell. The mind that lives in contentment lives in heaven. He who has made contentment—has made heaven.

Heaven and hell are not geographical places. You will not find them on any map. They are states of mind, psychological. In a contented man you will find heaven. With him you will find the flowers of heaven blooming. With him you will find the radiance of heaven. Even if he sits in dust, you will find him seated in a palace. For he has the art of turning dust into a palace; he has the alchemy. In the hand of a contented man there is magic. He will eat dry bread such that emperors become envious. He will walk naked upon the road such that the grand processions of emperors grow pale. Did you not see Mahavira walking naked upon the roads? Did you not see emperors bowing at Mahavira’s feet? What did this man have? Not even a loincloth. But there was a drunkenness. From where did it come? Where was the treasure of this intoxication found? He had befriended Contentment. And why did emperors have to bow before Mahavira, who had everything? They were friends with discontent. They thought: As emperor nothing was found—now perhaps as a fakir we shall find it. Let us sit at a fakir’s feet. This too is the race of discontent. If not in the world, then let us go to the Himalaya. This too is a new step of discontent. Remember: if sannyas arises out of discontent, it will be wrong. If it arises out of contentment, it will be right. Between the two is a difference of earth and sky.

The escapist sannyasin is a sannyasin out of discontent. If someone is a sannyasin out of discontent, he is still worldly. He saw that in the marketplace nothing was found. Discontent said: What is there in the bazaar, you fool! Understand discontent. Discontent knows all languages—even the spiritual language. It is very skillful. It sees you tiring of the marketplace, and says: Quite right—what is there in the market! And the wonder is that this same discontent had all along been telling you that everything is in the market—in wealth, in status and prestige. Before you can see that the wind is changing, that you are becoming startled, a little awake, it says: There is nothing here, fool! Did I not say so from the beginning? If it were here, would renunciates and tapasvins have gone to the forest? The real thing is in the forest. In the forest there is auspiciousness. Come to the forest. Leave. Leave wife, leave home and hearth. And you think: A great urge for sannyas is arising! Discontent has deceived you again. Now it will seat you in the forest—and there too, after some days, you will find nothing is being gained. And that same discontent will say: I told you before that this ‘forest-auspiciousness’ is empty chatter. Return home. What is, is in the world. Had you made a little more effort it would have been attained. You stopped just two or four steps before the goal. You are a fool, unwise. Look at those you left behind—how they are enjoying themselves! And you, sitting here in a cave—what are you doing?

But your blindness is such that you never ask discontent: First you said this, now you say that—you keep changing! No—the friendship is deep; one trusts a friend. Trust is the very name of friendship.

Rajjab says: Drop this friendship. It has led you astray for births upon births; it has made you journey through hells; it has led you from sorrow into great sorrow—drop this friendship now. Make a new friendship—befriend Contentment.

O mind, make Contentment your beloved.

Beloved, catch hold of Contentment. Fall in love with Contentment. Circle the sacred fire with Contentment. You have lived long with discontent—found nothing—now awaken! Contentment means: What is, blessed is my lot! Discontent says: Only this? There should be more! I am unfortunate! Contentment says: What is—blessed is my lot! It could have been less. Is even this little so little? Was there any necessity that it should be? This too is the gift of Paramatma. I am graced.

With just this language of grace, life is transformed. Wherever you are, you suddenly find the tune of heaven has begun to sound there. It was sounding already, only your discontent kept you from hearing. Angels were ever present around you, but eyes filled with discontent could not see. You were always entitled and the owner from the beginning—but friendship with discontent took you far away—far away from yourself.

Contentment brings you back to yourself. Why? Because in discontent’s process, distance is essential. Discontent keeps your eyes farther and farther away. It says: Go there. Go to the moon. In the future, ahead—further ahead. Happiness is not today; it will be tomorrow. Discontent says: Tomorrow is not that far! Only a few steps more. And tomorrow never comes. And when tomorrow comes, discontent says again: A little more, a little more—go on, go on! Discontent consoles and kindles insatiability. It keeps you going, keeps you racing—and the day you fall, you arrive only in the grave. You arrive nowhere else.

Contentment says: Not there—here. Not tomorrow—now. In this moment, all is. The moment you befriend contentment, time beyond this moment has no meaning. This very moment becomes the whole of existence. Let this moment become the whole of existence. Come—even for a little while—come with me! Befriend Contentment in this very instant. These trees swaying in the wind, this silence, my being here, your being here, this face-to-face—do not look beyond what is occurring this very moment. Fix your eyes in just this—and you will suddenly find you are drawing near a spring of joy. Suddenly, from within, a quiet will surge and surround you. You will miss it again, for discontent does not leave its friendship so quickly. To befriend is easy; to leave is very difficult. Marriage is easy—divorce entangles the courts. It will grab you again. Again discontent. Again sorrow. Again worry. Again anxious for the future. But whenever you give Contentment a chance—even for a moment—tie a bond with it, that very moment you will find the infinite pouring as rain. These are the very moments of meditation. And he who understands the secret of these very moments attains Samadhi.

What is the meaning of Samadhi? Friendship with Contentment has become steady. It is unwavering. The assaults of discontent have ceased. See the word ‘Samadhi’? It is made of the same root as ‘samadhan’—solution. Samadhan means: now there is no unsolvedness in consciousness. There is no anxiety of ‘it should be thus, it should be so.’ There is no problem in consciousness. Now as it is, it is—the as-is has been set down.

O mind, make Contentment your beloved.

Otherwise you will roam as beggars—become emperors!

How long can self-restraint endure? Patience has a limit too.
He who cannot find a moment’s ease—how long will he hide his disease?
‘Shad’—that wandering poet who loved you—
Goes town to town bearing the corpse of his longings.

All are roaming bearing the corpses of their longings. You have heard the tale, have you not?

Parvati died. And Shiva began to roam the land carrying Parvati’s corpse—in the hope that someday she would rise again. In the hope that at some holy pilgrimage some miracle would happen. In the hope that he would not be defeated by death, that he would keep faith with life. Carrying Parvati’s corpse, Shiva roams the whole land. The tale is lovely—symbolic. Limb by limb Parvati’s body decays and falls away, but Shiva’s hope does not fall.

You too are roaming with corpses. The corpses of your longings, your dreams, your desires—how many corpses you carry! And corpses rot; they stink; their limbs drop away—but you do not awake. You carry the old corpses, and then you begin arranging for new ones too. New longings, new webs of desires. Before you die, how many corpses will you not have gathered around you!

Befriend Contentment. The moment that friendship happens, you are free of all corpses. With friendship to contentment, you are free of the past, free of the future; the present becomes all in all.

Consider: Why does the past return so much in memory? Precisely because there is still attachment to the future. You will be startled—what has the future to do with the past? A deep connection. There is attachment to the past because in it nothing was really gotten—only wounds, and for those wounds you are seeking balm in the future. The two are linked. The wounds must be stirred, only then will the hunt for balm continue. What is your future? Only the projection of your past’s desires. Between these two you are missing. Between these two lies the moment of the present—that alone is the real moment, the true. The past is memory; the future is imagination; the present is Truth. But between memory and imagination, Truth is being denied. Drop ties with the past, drop ties with the future, be of this very moment! Become one-taste with it, be absorbed in it! This is the definition of meditation. This is the definition of love. When past and future dissolve, then whatever moment you are in—if you are alone, it is meditation; if in that moment there is someone together with you, it is love. But the flavor of the two is one—the present is the flavor of both.

O mind, make Contentment your beloved.

The scorching thirst of ages upon ages is quenched, the body suffers no sorrow.

If friendship with contentment happens, thirst is satiated. The hunger is filled.

The scorching thirst of ages upon ages…

And this thirst is no new thing—it is of ages upon ages, beginningless. But in a single instant it is wiped out—once friendship with contentment happens. Friendship with contentment is the foundation of saintliness, the foundation of sannyas.

…the body suffers no sorrow.

And you have inflicted sorrows enough upon your own soul—uselessly. You were entitled to joys, you were owner of flowers—but you kept plucking thorns. And even now you do not admit; even now you do not awake. One discontent cannot be erased before you fabricate ten new ones. Then you run again. Has running become the only mode of your life? Have you forgotten how to halt? Stop! Be still! Paramatma is here. Now. In this very moment. Neither in the far sky, nor somewhere in Vaikuntha; not in some Moksha—it is in Contentment.

What is given in renunciation is what the Creator has made; grasping will not bring you more.

Attend to this sutra; it is paradoxical. But Truth is often paradoxical. The famous utterance of Jesus: Those who save will lose; those willing to lose—their treasure will remain. It seems reverse arithmetic. It seems reverse because the life we have lived till now has been reverse. To straighten it now appears reverse.

What is given in renunciation is what the Creator has made…

Rajjab says: What Paramatma has given is enjoyed only by those who do not clutch it; who do not close their fist upon it. Remember the Upanishadic utterance: Tena tyaktena bhunjīthāh—He alone has enjoyed who has renounced. A unique saying. In this single saying the quintessence of all the scriptures is gathered. Those alone know how to enjoy who are free of grabbing. The grasper cannot enjoy. You see the miser—he is poorer than the poor. Not that he does not have, but he sits clutching. You have heard the stories: misers die and become snakes sitting upon their hoarded treasure. In life too they did the same—sat like snakes, only kept guard. After death they will do the same. The stories carry essence—for what one has practiced all life becomes such a habit that after death, how will you do otherwise?

One efficiency expert died. An expert of skill, an efficiency expert. His job was only this: where four men worked in an office, to get the work done by one; what takes two hours, to have it done in fifteen minutes. He was famous. He died. They say that when his bier was lifted, he raised the lid and said: What is going on? Why are there four men? Put two wheels on, and one man will be enough to reach the cremation ground!

It seems right. All his life he did only this—how to take more work with fewer men. Even while dying, how will he forget? Even after death, how will he forget? His breath must have fluttered seeing four men carrying the bier! It can be done with one—only two wheels are needed; why waste the labor of four!

The stories are right: the miser dies and becomes a snake. All his life he did only this. When did he enjoy? He had wealth, but when did he enjoy? He only guarded. There are very few truly wealthy in this world—most are guards. Some guard another’s wealth; some guard their own. Guarding is guarding—what difference does it make!

What is given in renunciation is what the Creator has made…

What Paramatma has created is received by those who know the art of tyaga—letting go. What is the art of tyaga? Befriending Contentment is the art of tyaga. No one else has defined it so clearly. Rajjab has given a mathematical formula. The definition of tyaga is Contentment. You will be startled, because even when you have ‘renounced,’ you have done so out of discontent. A man leaves everything and goes; he says: If I do not leave, how will I get heaven? Leaving the world in the hope of getting heaven—this is not renunciation. This is an intense lust for enjoyment. He leaves this wife because in heaven he will get houris, lovely apsaras. He is dreaming. Here he does not drink wine; in heaven streams of wine flow. There he will drink to his heart’s content. Whatever pleasures the scriptures keep you from here—they have arranged those very pleasures in heaven. These scriptures are strange! If here you must be made to leave them, why arrange them there? And if arrangements are to be there, then Umar Khayyam is right: let practice be done here. Otherwise there will be no skill in drinking there. You say: In heaven streams of wine flow; and here if one does not practice, who will drink? You say: There are beautiful women there; and here the advice is to avoid women—then who will enjoy them there? Umar Khayyam’s jibe has logic—he is laughing at your so-called renunciates. He is saying: These renouncers and such—this is all false chatter. Under the name of renunciation there is desire to enjoy—only the desire to get more. It is a bargain, a business, not tyaga.

The scriptures say: On the bank of the Ganga, if you donate one rupee, in heaven you will get it a crore-fold. What kind of renunciation is this? And for one rupee, a crore-fold! Then not only governments run lotteries—God runs them too. It becomes a lottery. A man leaves one rupee on the bank of the Ganga in the hope that in heaven he will get it a crore-fold. But this hope is discontent. This lust is discontent. It is not renunciation. It is small renunciation for a big enjoyment.

Rajjab says:

What is given in renunciation is what the Creator has made…

But those have enjoyed who know the real art of letting go. And what is that art? Today all is. In what is—supreme joy. Tomorrow is not. What is there to save for tomorrow when there is no tomorrow? What is there to hoard for tomorrow when there is no tomorrow? What is there to clutch for tomorrow when there is no tomorrow?

Muhammad, every night before sleeping, would say to his wife: Whatever has collected in the day—give it away. Who knows about tomorrow—whether we will be or not. And the One who gave today—if tomorrow happens—He will give tomorrow too. This is contentment. All life the wife obeyed. But a woman is, after all, a woman. Muhammad fell ill. The last moments drew near. That night the wife did not obey. She felt fear—if in the middle of the night medicine is needed, if a physician is needed, where will I pay the fees from? So she saved a little—not much—five dinars, hiding them.

At midnight Muhammad began turning in bed. The wife said: Some restlessness? Some pain? Shall I arrange medicine? Call the physician? He said: Neither medicine, nor physician. It seems to me you have saved something in the house. My life-breath is stuck on it. What answer will I give to God—that on the last day I did not trust? The wife was very frightened. Quickly she brought the five dinars and said: I did save them. Forgive me. The thought came—what if need arose, at odd hours, in sickness, old age. Muhammad said: Quickly distribute them! She said: Even if I distribute, to whom? Who will be there in the middle of the night? Muhammad said: The One who reminded me there are five coins stuck in the house—He must have sent someone. Just open the door. She opened the door—and saw a beggar standing—at midnight! He said: I am in great trouble; I need five coins. Those five coins were given to that beggar. Muhammad pulled the sheet over himself and it is said that the moment he drew the sheet, his life-breath left.

Contentment has vast dimensions. In relation to time, living in the present is contentment. In relation to clutching, to enjoy what comes without holding is contentment—without clutching, without claiming, without asserting ownership. In relation to possession, non-possession is contentment. In relation to trust—this faith, that the One who gave today will give tomorrow—is contentment. Contentment has many virtues. A single contentment will transform your life in countless directions. Hence Rajjab says: Make friendship—befriend Contentment.

What is given in renunciation is what the Creator has made; grasping will not bring you more.

He says: However much you try to clutch, more will not come.

…grasping will not bring you more.

However much you clutch, more will not come. For if friendship with discontent remains, discontent is so skilled that it has the habit of making every thing seem little. When there is a lakh, it will say: What is a lakh—ten lakhs are needed. When there are ten lakhs, it will say: What is ten lakhs—a crore is needed. The whole procedure of discontent is to conjure a larger image than what is. And in the image of the larger, what is becomes small. It becomes small, pain begins. Insatiability arises. A thorn begins to prick. The race begins. And this race can never end until the friendship with discontent drops. The moment it drops—whatever is, is more than enough.

I have heard: A fakir had a small hut—just enough space for husband and wife to sleep. One night it was raining hard, the night was moonless, and a man knocked on the door. The husband said: Open the door. The wife said: It is not right to open, the rain is heavy; someone must be seeking shelter—but where is space? The husband said: Do not worry. If there is space enough for two to sleep, there is space enough for three to sit. Open the door. The door was opened. A guest came in and said: May I rest here for the night? The husband said: Gladly. The three sat, and began to talk. Then after a while someone knocked again. The husband said to the wife: Open. She said: Now it will be very difficult—where is space? The husband said: The three are sitting a little far apart; the four will sit a little close together. Where is the lack of space? What is needed is heart. Open the door. That man too was brought in. After a while someone else arrived and knocked. It was night, the path was dark, people had lost their way and couldn’t find the road. The husband said: Open the door. The wife said: It is becoming too much. The husband said: Right now we are sitting in some comfort; there will be a little discomfort—but where is the lack of space? And if there is love—what is discomfort? Open the door.

So far so good. After a while a donkey came and banged his head on the door. The husband said: Open the door. The wife said: Now this is beyond the limit. Where is the space here now? And this donkey is standing outside! Shall we bring this donkey in too? The husband said: Right now we are sitting—there is enough space for him; we will stand up. But there is enough space. You bring the donkey in. Now the three who had come earlier also protested. They said: This is not right. The husband said: Think of yourselves. You know, my wife was protesting from the very beginning! Now you too protest! This is not some rich man’s palace where there is lack of space. This is a poor man’s hut—where is the lack of space? This utterance is wonderful: ‘This is not some rich man’s palace in which there is lack of space; this is a poor man’s hut—where is the lack of space?’ Let him come. The donkey came in; they all stood. Standing, they continued to chat. And the fakir said: See, space is made—what is needed is heart.

Contentment is vast. Discontent is petty. In the palace of a discontented man even a palace is small. In the hut of a contented man—even a hut is large. The contented person knows the art of living.

What is given in renunciation is what the Creator has made; grasping will not bring you more.

There is no essence in tinkering; what Ram has arranged alone is received.

And keep in mind—these are new gestures of contentment he is explaining. He says:

There is no essence in tinkering…

Do not make great efforts to keep altering what has come to you. For it never really alters. The illusions are of alteration—but it does not change. A poor man may become rich—but poverty does not vanish. Alterations are superficial. Dress a sick man in fine clothes, crown him, seat him on a throne—what difference does it make? His sickness will be eating him from within. He was sick in torn clothes; now he is sick in fine robes—what is the difference? Give wealth to a discontented man—he was poor, now he is still poor. No difference. Put scriptures into the hands of an ignorant man—he will memorize them, but he was ignorant and remains ignorant. By memorizing scripture nothing happens. Yes—an illusion arises that I am wise.

There is no essence in tinkering…

He who has known contentment says: In this life there are no real differences. You may run and scramble as much as you like—life remains what it is. Here and there you may change colors a bit, but you remain as you are. No real difference enters. Then what is the essence of the scramble? Why this tumult?

…what Ram has arranged alone is received.

And whatever Paramatma gives—that alone is obtained. Not by your acquiring.

…what Ram has arranged alone is received.

Contentment means: If He will give, He will give. If He will not give, He will not give. If He gives—thanks. If He does not—thanks. Because He knows what our need is. Sometimes our need is to receive—and sometimes our need is to not receive. Sometimes our growth happens by not receiving—and sometimes our growth happens by receiving. And He knows. This trust is contentment.

All this is your gift, O Giver—what can I say in it!
You kindled the lamp of life;
I stumbled at every step.
Upon whatever path You set me, on that path let me walk.
All this is your gift, O Giver—what can I say in it!
You showered pearls;
I gathered black pebbles.
Let me carry pebbles in my bag and weep, thinking them pearls.
All this is your gift, O Giver—what can I say in it!
You distributed lovely flowers;
In my lot came thorns.
Let me take thorns in my bag and weigh them as flowers.
All this is your gift, O Giver—what can I say in it!
You sent cups of nectar;
I nearly lost my life recognizing them.
Let me know even poison as nectar—let me not unveil Your secret.
All this is your gift, O Giver—what can I say in it!

The bhakta says, the contented one says: You have always done rightly; it is only because of my discontent that I have missed. You sent flowers, I picked thorns. You sent the cup of nectar, I turned it into poison. You have fashioned the whole world wondrously beautiful, I have made it ugly.

All this is your gift, O Giver—what can I say in it!

Now the mistake begins to be understood—that if I suffered sorrow, I suffered by my own doing. People say: Why has God made so much sorrow? You know neither God, nor the chemistry of sorrow—how sorrow is made. God has not made sorrows; He has only given you freedom. And there is no joy greater in the world than freedom. But you are misusing that freedom. You turn flowers into thorns, nectar into poison, pearls into pebbles—and then you blame God.

Upon whatever path You set me, on that path let me walk—

This alone is contentment. On my side now I will do nothing. I will do nothing apart from You. If Your will is to keep me poor, I will remain poor. And if Your will is to keep me rich, I will remain rich. Keep in mind, you have heard the first will many times from sadhus and sannyasins—you have not heard the second. Because your sadhu and sannyasin too is not truly content. One says: Until I become rich I will not stop. Another says: Wealth? Never. I will remain destitute. One sings the glory of wealth; another sings the glory of poverty.

In this country the glory of poverty has been sung a lot. Because of that very glory you have become poor. Even now your mahatmas call poverty ‘Daridra Narayana.’ Well then— you have decided to be poor. On His side, pearls shower—but you keep making them thorns. No one is born here to be poor. We come from God—how can we be poor! The name we have given to God in this land—have you pondered it? Ishvara. Ishvara means—Aishvarya—the One of all splendor, all majesty, all wealth. We come from Him, are His rays, His offspring—how can we be poor! But some have insisted: we will be rich. The one who says, I will be rich—he too is missing. For we are rich—what is the need to be? One mistake—that I will be rich. We were rich already. There was no need to be. In mistake we stumbled—and in the effort to be rich, we suffered sorrow. Then the opposite insistence is born: I will now remain poor. This often happens—man goes to the opposite. He suffered much in wealth, so one day he says: Enough; wealth brings sorrow. It is not wealth that brings sorrow— I tell you—it is discontent that brings sorrow. How can wealth give sorrow—when even poverty cannot give sorrow? Sorrow is in discontent.

But we never see the real. We say: Sorrow is in wealth. I will leave wealth. I will remain poor. Now he goes to be poor. But the journey continues. First there was discontent to go from poor to rich; now there is discontent to go from rich to poor. But your tie with discontent does not break.

Understand the revolution in what I say. I say: Whatever you are, wherever you are, as you are—drop the very talk of being otherwise. If His intent is to keep you poor—then poor. If His intent is to keep you rich—then rich. And you will be astonished: If you are content to be what you are, where you are, as you are—then the real wealth is born. Contentedness is wealth. In that contentment is wealth. Then even the poor becomes rich. Of the rich—what need to speak— even the poor becomes rich. Richness is but one thing—Contentment.

But you have seen both kinds of people and you think they are contrary. They are not even an inch contrary. Their logic is one; their sequence of reasoning is one; their process of thinking is one. Discontent is the tone of both.

There is no essence in tinkering; what Ram has arranged alone is received.

Desiring heaven, one never reaches heaven; nor can one go to the netherworld.

By desire no one reaches heaven, nor by desire can anyone reach hell.

Desiring heaven, one never reaches heaven…

By your wanting you cannot go to heaven. By wanting you cannot go anywhere. Wanting means—you are fighting with God. Wanting means—you have some private agenda. You are not in unison with the longing of the Vast. You say: I will cook my own khichdi. This khichdi that the Vast is cooking—you do not want to partake; you say: I will place my separate pot upon the fire; a khichdi of two-and-a-half measures of rice you want to cook. There begins your pain; there is your miss.

Desiring heaven, one never reaches heaven…

By your wanting will you reach heaven? Drop wanting, and you will find—you are in heaven; you have always been in heaven.

Knowing thus, erase your wish-chariots; understand—and abide happy, brother.

Knowing thus, erase your wish-chariots…

Know this much: By your doing nothing will happen. By your wanting nothing will happen. By your running nothing will happen. You are false; therefore whatever arises from you will be false. Ram is true. Merge with Ram—that is contentment. Contentment means: Thy will is my will. I have no separate will now. And the day Thy will is my will—where will ‘you’ remain? You remain only under the shelter of ‘my will.’ You say: I want thus.

It happens here daily. Sannyasins come and say to me: We surrender all to you. Whatever you say, that we shall do. What I say—they do not do! It happens that I tell them right there: Do this. And they say: No—we will do only what you say!

A young woman took sannyas. She said: I will do exactly what you say. I said: Fine. Now the first thing—go back home. She said: I cannot go anywhere. I will do exactly what you say. I said: Are you listening? Your parents will be pained; your age is not much; they will be upset; now go. Slowly, when they agree, come. She said: You cannot remove me from here! I have surrendered all! And I could not move her—two years, three years—she does not move. She says: I have surrendered! And I will do exactly what you say—I am nothing now. See the tricks the mind plays!

A young sannyasin wrote to me: For some days my mind longs to go back home for a while—to go to America. But whatever you say, that I will do. I told him: There is no need to go now. The next day his letter came: Hearing your answer, the mind became very sad; there is a tune in the mind to go only; yet, whatever you say, that I will do. So I sent word: All right—go. Then his letter came: I am supremely delighted. My heart has great peace that what you say, that I am going to do. See the joke! People wait until the point when the thing they themselves want to do is spoken. Until then they keep saying: Whatever you say, that I will do—but they do not do. When you say exactly what they wanted from the beginning, then they say: See surrender! I have surrendered all! Even if you told me to go to hell I would go—America is nothing! I will go—since you say so, I will go for sure.

Man’s mind is very dishonest.

Mulla Nasruddin goes to the mosque. He says to the mullah: It is very hard to come in the morning; I can’t decide—whether to go or not to go. The time goes in deciding; my mind is very split. The mullah said: Leave it to God. He said: How will it be decided, and how will it be known for certain what God’s will is? Mulla was a little afraid too, because God’s will is surely this—that you go to the mosque. But he asked: How will it be certain what God’s will is? The mullah said: Do this—keep a coin. Say: If heads falls, God wants you to go to the mosque. If tails falls, God wants you not to go.

The next day Mulla did not come. The mullah met him in the market and asked: You didn’t come, brother? He said: I did as you said. The mullah asked: So what happened—did tails fall? Mulla said: The first time—no. I had to toss it seventeen times—then tails fell. But it fell. When it fell tails, then I rested easy. I said: Now it is God’s will!

Man is very dishonest. He tries to impose his own will even upon God. From there arise the very sources of his sufferings.

Knowing thus, erase your wish-chariots…

Seeing this web of sufferings—now erase your wish-chariots. Riding on the chariots of the mind you have been journeying: Let it be this way; let it be that way; let this happen; let that happen—these chariots of the mind—now erase them. Now dismount from the chariot of the mind.

Knowing thus, erase your wish-chariots; understand—and abide happy, brother.

And then? Then there is joy upon joy. Then sorrow has never been known. Whoever surrendered at the feet of God has not known sorrow. In that surrender all sorrows are erased. In that understanding the ocean of bliss surges forth. Our distance from God is only this much—‘my will’—just that much distance.

What joy remains for longing then?
If longing is fulfilled,
What is heaven, what is hell?
Only Thy nearness—or Thy distance.

Only this is the whole trouble—‘only Thy nearness—or Thy distance.’ Distance from You—that is the essence of all life’s pains. Nearness to You—that is the essence of all life’s joys. Heaven is Thy nearness; to be near You. Hell is to be far from You. Between distance and nearness what is the wall? My will—or Thy will. The day you can say with your whole heart: Thy will be done—from that day, sorrow is no more.

O mind, accept the teaching of the Satguru; hold trust in your heart.
Servant Rajjab says: Know this, and do bhajan—for Govind dwells in your home.

O mind, accept the teaching of the Satguru…

This alone is the teaching of the Satgurus—so small a thing. Keys are small; however large the palaces whose doors they open, keys are small. This alone is the teaching: Be friends with Contentment.

…hold trust in your heart.

Who can befriend Contentment? He in whose life there is Shraddha—trust.

Understand this.

You were in your mother’s womb for nine months—you did not run a shop, and yet you lived. You had no hands or feet with which to take food—and yet you lived. There was no way to breathe—and yet you lived. Nine months you were in the mother’s belly—how did you live? What was your will? By whose will did you live? Then, even before you were born, milk filled your mother’s breasts—by whose will? The very one who would drink that milk was only just arriving, and the milk stood ready—by whose will? Once out of the womb, you had never breathed before. In the mother’s belly the mother’s breath sufficed—but the moment you emerged, instantly you breathed—who taught you? You had never breathed before, had never gone to a school—who taught you how to breathe? By whose will? Then who digests the milk you drink, the food you eat? Who turns it into bone and flesh and marrow? Who has given you all the processes of life? Who puts you to sleep when you are tired? And who wakes you when your sleep is complete? Who moves these moons and suns? Who keeps these trees green? Who makes flowers bloom in infinite colors and fragrances?

From that source by which so vast an arrangement is going on—will your small life not be run by its support? Think a little, attend a little. If you see the arrangement of this Vast running—nowhere any hindrance—everything running beautifully, most beautiful—everything running without hesitation—you are a tiny fraction of this world—when did this illusion come that I must run myself separately? That I must take my responsibility upon myself? In this very illusion you have created all your pains, failures and sorrows.

…hold trust in your heart.

Remember—neither Rajjab nor I ask you to believe in some doctrine. Not this: Believe in the Gita. That will not make you religious; it will make you a Hindu. What has Hindu to do with being religious! Not this: Believe in the Quran—that will make you a Muslim. And enough trouble has already occurred upon the earth because of Muslims. I say to you: Trust in life, not in books. Not in temples and mosques—trust in this vast Existence. And in this very trust contentment will be born. This trust and this contentment are two sides of one coin. Your discontent says only this much: I must make my arrangements myself. If I do not—who will?

O mind, accept the teaching of the Satguru; hold trust in your heart.
Servant Rajjab says: Know this, and do bhajan—for Govind dwells in your home.

Within the house Govind abides—what worry grips you? Do bhajan, dance, be bliss-intoxicated—‘Sants, my mind is enthralled.’ Dance, sing, hum—Govind has taken abode within you. Govind sits within you.

May your ears be intimate with the jangling of bells—
If there is no resolve of the journey in the heart, nothing is anything.
Seek in the idol-house of our heart, O ascetic!
If your Kaaba is not here somewhere—then nothing is anything.

May your ears be intimate with the jangling of bells. O priest, even if your ears go deaf listening to the bells of the temple—nothing will happen.

May your ears be intimate with the jangling of bells—
If there is no resolve of the journey in the heart, nothing is anything.

Go on listening to temple bells, keep doing worship and chant—but if there is no longing to drown in God, if there is no longing to drop discontent and awaken contentment—if there is no resolve of the journey in the heart, nothing is anything.

These temples and mosques are your constructions—your lies—the inventions of man.

Seek in the idol-house of our heart, O ascetic!

And you go to cultivate great renunciation, great austerity—O zahid, take a glance in our heart’s temple too!

If your Kaaba is not here somewhere—then nothing is anything.

If here your Kaaba does not appear—you will not find it anywhere.

Hold trust in your heart—Govind dwells in your home.

Within is the abode of Govind. Celebrate the rasa—why be entangled in discontent? Whom are you out to find? The Master of masters is within! The Emperor of emperors is within!

I have not merged in the Name of Hari.
The five companions play in the five directions; the mind is drenched in the sap of Maya.

Man is caught in the net of the five senses. He thinks of food—that is the tongue’s relish. He thinks of music—that is the ear’s relish. He thinks of touch—that is the body’s relish. Where is the leisure to look within, to seek the Kaaba of the inner? Where is the leisure to seek Govind? Outside and outside he remains entangled; whole life passes in that. Seek food, seek enjoyment, seek beauty, seek music, seek fragrance—the senses keep deluding. In the whirl of the senses, man keeps walking outside; the occasion to go within is not found—and we miss the One who is ours; we keep wandering like beggars.

I have not merged in the Name of Hari.
The five companions play in the five directions…

And these five senses—each has its separate direction. Hence you too are shattered into fragments—one part goes here, another there. One part is indifferent to the other. For the tongue’s taste you eat so much that the body suffers—and you do not care. For the body’s rest you sleep so much that the mind grows dull, depressed—and you do not care. Each sense pulls in its own way. You are in the net of five senses.

Mulla Nasruddin went to steal in a house. He could not steal—for the people of the house woke up. The master of the house had two wives—one above, one below—and both were pulling him. The upstairs wife pulling him up, the downstairs wife pulling him down! Imagine the predicament he was in. The commotion was such that Mulla hid in a corner, frightened—When will these people settle so I can run? He could not escape. The uproar lasted all night—morning came and he was caught inside. There was no chance to get out.

In court the case was tried. The magistrate asked: Why could you not flee? He said: There was no way to flee. The uproar in the house was such—first I was curious to watch, second this uproar—and the way these two women were beating their husband—I was scared too: if I get caught, what will be my fate! If this is the husband’s fate! The magistrate asked: What do you have to say now? He said: Sir, only one thing—give me any punishment, but do not give me the punishment of marrying two women. I am ready to undergo every kind of sentence—but what I saw that night—only this much I ask: do not marry me to two women! That is all.

But what of two women—here there are five, one behind each. The five senses are pulling. Your predicament grows. You are broken into fragments.

The five companions play in the five directions; the mind is drenched in the sap of Maya.

And the mind is steeped in dreams. Therefore what is within, does not become known. Govind dwells in the house—but how will it be known? And at every moment Govind calls from within—but how will it be known?

The breeze of dawn tickled me,
Made me laugh—and laughing told me—
They have arrived.
The singing birds awakened me,
Woke me—and waking told me—
They have arrived.
The rosy morning began to be fragrant again;
I met my lost love—
The bees sang a song of love,
Enticed me—and enticing, told me—
They have arrived.
The bride of my dreams has begun to adorn herself;
The anklet-sound rings through the airs—
Some melody the clouds recited,
Recited—and reciting, told me—
They have arrived.
The longings of my heart began to tremble,
Old waves grew young again!
Someone rocked the cradle of my heart,
Rocked it—and rocking, told me—
They have arrived.
The wind smiled, the sky hummed;
For Someone I spread a bed—
The springs again lifted my veil,
Lifted it—and lifting, told me—
They have arrived.

Paramatma comes every instant. The winds bring his news; the thunder of clouds brings his news; the moon brings his news, the sun brings his news. Flowers bloom and bring his news. Every moment the news comes—They have arrived—but where is your leisure? You are entangled in the whirl of your senses. You are being pulled. You are caught in a great hassle. Your life is an uproar.

…the mind is drenched in the sap of Maya.

Maya’s sap means: the relish of dreams. What is not—you are entangled in it. And by being entangled in what is not—you are deprived of what is.

What evil notion has seized my mind—that I have made love fruitless!

In what stupidity have you fallen? In what stupor are you living? What sort of sleep is this, that you have loved the futile?

…made love fruitless.

You have loved that from which nothing is to be solved—and you have not loved that by which all is solved. You have loved discontent—and not loved contentment.

O mind, make Contentment your beloved.

I have seen: you got tangled—but you do not know how to untangle. You have drunk the harsh relish of the senses.

What story can one tell of oneself—many enmities have made the mind worn-out.

And what is your story? Only so much—that how many blows you suffered, how many wounds you received, how many pains you endured; only this story—that in how many thickets of thorns you were entangled. What is your story? Your story is your lament.

What story can one tell of oneself—many enmities have made the mind worn-out.

You have fallen into the nets of many enemies.

Your own Self-loving Atmaram—
Not even in dreams have you recognized Him.

To awaken—this is another matter. Even in dreams the thought of Paramatma does not arise. In dreams too there is not a glimpse of Him. And yet He is present every moment—when awake He is present; when asleep He is present; even in dreams He is present.